Egg City Blues








Four million eggs were poached in the city today.
Four million eggs poached and six million eggs prepped in other ways:
two million eggs scrambled,
two million boiled
two million deviled, steamed, coated in oil.
Eggs in the city! Eggs in the city!

Today we eat eggs with friends.
We eat eggs on the subway.
We eat eggs in our PJs.
We eat eggs while sending text messages,
egg yolk dribbling messily onto our phones.
Imperfect eggs are crushed beneath our Jimmy Choos!
Lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

A couple of kids throw eggs at the door of Old Man Joe.
A couple of lovers dip toes in eggs like soldiers
then lick each other’s toes.
Egg tasted. Eggs wasted.
Eggs devoured.
Do cracked eggshells expose egg power? Yes, it’s true.
But lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

“What’s beneath the egg?” people forget to ask us.
“What’s beneath the egg? What’s beneath the egg?”
Some days bodies are poached in the city,
bodies mangled and twisted,
scrambled and boiled like eggs, like eggs.

Some days there are eggshells without eggs.
“Don’t tread on the eggshells if you want to keep your legs!”
they tell the children.
Behold the Egg City inferno:
Abandon all yolk, ye who enter here!

Some days eggs disappear like props in a conjuror’s trick,
and on other days The Age of the Egg seems mythic.
But not today.
Today we enjoy eggs in the city,
eggs poached, scrambled and coated in oil.

A Complete History of Beauty

mr and mrs smith

My dear, I comprehend beauty.

Have you ever witnessed the beauty of an egg being poached?
Have you ever listened to the greasy screams of chips as they fry?
Or the death cry of the beetle under the nip of a shrew?

My dear, we’re beautiful things,
But there are things more beautiful than me and you.

Ghosts of Meals Past

the hauntingThe meals they haunt the walls and floors,
It gives me angina and shivers.
The meals they lurk in stalls and doors,
They stalk the moors and rivers.

I hear the cod and hear the crisps,
And fear their cruel and dreadful deeds.
I sense the steak and sense the chips,
And know how they must ache to feed.

They pierce the belly of the dark.
The ghosts of meals past.